


Moving Forward

by way1203



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, M/M, Medication, Nightmares, Paranoia, Poor Mycroft, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/way1203/pseuds/way1203
Summary: In which Mycroft struggles to deal with what happened that night with his siblings and John. Contains TFP spoilers.





	1. Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> After watching TFP three times, I had the need to write something about Mycroft and how he's dealing with everything that happened to him.

It started with nightmares. Mycroft would crawl into bed, shut his eyes, listen to the sound of his own heart or Greg's breathing beside him. He'd fall asleep. Seemingly out of nowhere the memories from that day would creep into the dark beneath his lids. Flashes of orange and black from the explosion, blood and skull fragments from the cell, Eurus singing that bloody song or grinning from a TV screen. It was all enough to make him jerk awake.

He'd sit upright, his heart pounding, his hands trembling, and frantically scan his surroundings.

He was fine. He was home. Often, he was met with concern from Greg.

"Alright then?" He'd ask. "It was just a dream."

Mycroft knew this, but the reminder helped tremendously. He'd manage to go back to sleep. This time, he'd encounter Sherlock in his mind. They were back in room and his brother had the gun pointed at him. He had prepared to die. He had deserved it. This time he received his wish. Sherlock pulled the trigger. He always woke up when the bullet hit his heart. Sometimes, instead of having the gun pointed at his brother, Sherlock had the gun pointed at himself. The whole countdown would happen just as it did in reality. Every time he had this nightmare, Sherlock got to one. Every time he had this nightmare, Mycroft watched his brother kill himself while Eurus laughed. 


	2. Reminders

"Sherlock!"

The elder Holmes would wake in cold sweat calling his brother's name. It was all too much. Greg's patience meant the world to him. He tolerated Mycroft's screams. Greg stayed awake until he fell asleep again. The DI distracted him from the evils of his memories by discussing his own day, or helping him practice deep breathing exercises.

Soon the nightmares weren't his only problem. Mycroft would be working, someone would shut a door too loud, or hum some random tune, and he'd flinch. His stomach would drop as anxiety crawled across his skin. On two occasions, he excused himself to dry heave in the bathroom. Once so keen to have vocal conversations on the phone, Mycroft started to communicate almost exclusively by text. The sound of a phone ringing as he waited for the other person to pick up brought him back to that room. Back to the sound of Molly's phone ringing repeatedly.

He had expected some of these moments to affect him negatively, particularly the more violent moments. What he hadn't expected were the changes in his eating habits.

Mycroft wasn't entirely sure why, but food reminded him of that night when Sherlock paid junkies to scare him. Food reminded him of seeing the projector play memories from his childhood that he'd rather forget, especially given his weight at the time. Many of his insecurities were brought back in waves that night. There were so many things he couldn't control then. There were so many things he couldn't control now. He couldn't control the nightmares or the flashbacks and painful memories. But he _could_ control his food intake.


	3. Food

Mycroft knew not to be obvious about it. He ate dinner with Greg in the evenings, or breakfast with him in the mornings, whichever their irregular schedules allowed. It was easier for him to get away with only eating one meal on the days they were like passing ships. He'd drink plenty of tea throughout the day and busy himself with work to distract his mind. Moments of downtime only allowed recollections from that event to enter his head.

He'd always been a stress eater. He'd also dieted plenty of times throughout his life. It was nothing to him to switch between abstaining from food and gorging on food. When his diet of one meal a day and tea started causing him to lose weight, Mycroft told himself he'd start eating normally again before Greg could take notice. But he didn't. He kept going because now it was force of habit.

Or that's what Mycroft told himself.

The lack of eating allowed him to not remember the interruption in his favorite film, just before he had to fight in the sanctuary of his home. The lack of eating satisfied that side of him that was incredibly insecure about his weight. He started to feel better for the most part, with the exception of the occasional headache or lightheadedness.

Greg took notice of his flattened stomach one night when they were on the couch. Mycroft attempted to lie his way out of it, and he nearly succeeded. But the ticking of the grandfather clock was particularly loud. Had it always been that loud? He closed his eyes. There, in the vivid coves of his memories, was Jim Moriarty. The clock blended with his thoughts until it sounded as though the criminal was sitting beside him saying _tick tock_ just as he did on that red screen.

"Mycroft?" asked Greg. "Mycroft?"

He jumped. The clock struck eight and jostled him back to reality.

"Myc, are you okay? _Talk_ _to_ _me_. Let me help...is it another one?"

That was enough to cause Mycroft's stiff-upper-lip exterior to falter. He nodded once, his face in his palms. When Greg wrapped his arms around him, Mycroft finally allowed himself to cry.


	4. Two Weeks

  
It took two weeks before Mycroft felt comfortable with seeing a psychologist. Therapy was more out of necessity than choice. Greg had a growing concern, and suggested he see someone who could truly help. He had a right. After all, Mycroft wasn't sleeping, he was paranoid, and he was barely eating. All signs pointed to him not being at his peak.

Mycroft couldn't get past his initial fear that if he were to see a psychologist, that it would end up being Eurus in disguise. He didn't want what happened to John to happen to him. Mycroft simply couldn't handle having a gun pointed in his direction again.

In those two weeks between their conversation and Mycroft's first appointment, Greg managed to get his partner to start eating two meals a day instead of one. Granted, the first meal was often toast or a half of a grapefruit, but it was something. Something was better than his slow starvation. It was also during this time that Greg officially moved in. He agreed when Mycroft decided that they had taken things slowly for long enough. It was time for Greg to have more than just a toothbrush and two days worth of clothes at his house. Calm washed over the elder Holmes as the DI became even more of a constant in his daily life. Besides, if Mycroft were completely honest with himself, his house was far too big for just one person.

Greg attended therapy with him when the time came. Although Mycroft didn't ask for this, he felt Greg's presence made things that much more tolerable. The first session was the hardest. He wasn't used to someone prying—no, not prying—genuinely asking questions about how he felt and what he'd experienced. It wasn't the same as when Greg asked. Mycroft felt as though his answers were unacceptable, or not what the therapist needed to hear in order to help him. The questions brought his mind back to the confrontation with his parents post-incident. It was overwhelming then, and it certainly was now.

Mycroft was trying. He was always trying. He tried to help Eurus and he tried to be there for Sherlock. He tried to keep his baby brother from using and dying in some den surrounded by strangers. He tried to keep his little sister comfortable and her mind appropriately occupied. He tried to provide the right answers to his therapist. He tried, but he was failing—just as he'd failed with his siblings.

He wasn't sure what triggered it, but halfway through his session, Mycroft had a panic attack.


	5. Medication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter for me to write because it reminded me of my own MH battles. I hope I wrote this gracefully.

After his panic attack, Mycroft's psychologist suggested he try medication to help ease his symptoms. He didn't want to at first. He'd been on medicine a few times before.

The first time was back when he was in his early twenties and first started his position in the government. Then again when he found Sherlock in that awful state and they made an agreement that the younger Holmes would make a list. The last time he was on medication was when Sherlock faked his suicide. Each time it was the same prescription. Each time it lasted for about a year or two depending on the circumstances. Each time, once the particular stressor reduced to a level of anxiety he could tolerate, he decided to stop taking the medicine with the help of his doctor. It took two more sessions with his psychologist before he agreed that he should start medication again.

He knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, but still he felt almost disappointed with himself. He'd hoped that he could handle the cards his mind dealt him without medication. It was that ingrained stigma from his uncle: _We_   _Holmes don't take crazy pills. It ruins our minds._ It was an interesting sentiment coming from him, but it found it's way into Mycroft's ten-year-old brain and stayed there all these years. Nonetheless, Mycroft was grateful for the medicine, as it helped him sleep peacefully and go throughout his day with less severe anxiety.

Now that Mycroft's anxiety began to stabilize, his therapist moved onto her next topic of concern: Sherlock.


	6. Brother Mine

Mycroft hadn't spoken to his brother since the incident. Greg had tried for a week to get him to contact Sherlock, if for no other reason than to inform him that he was doing fine. Mycroft didn't see the point of this. The younger Holmes knew he was alive post-incident thanks to Greg's updates, and that was all he needed to know. Besides, Mycroft would never call or text Sherlock with the truth about his current condition. In daily situations, ones where their lives weren't in danger, Mycroft knew Sherlock cared very little about him.

"How do you know that?" asked Aarti.

"On the few occasions I've mentioned my sentiments to my brother, he has dismissed them." Mycroft adjusted his posture and gave his therapist a small smile. "My relationship with Sherlock has drastically changed since we've both become adults."

"How so?"

He took a deep breath and glanced at Greg. It hurt him to get into his relationship with his brother, but he needed to do so.

As a child, Sherlock relied heavily on Mycroft for attention. Father worked and, given Eurus's peculiarities, Mummy didn't always have the patience for Sherlock's antics. Mycroft did. The two played deductions. Mycroft allowed his brother to tag along on trips to the library and museums. Sherlock eagerly listened to him read everything from his textbook to classical literature. The seven-year gap between them made itself known a handful of times and, yes, there was rivalry. However, for a moment in time, Mycroft was a hero in Sherlock's eyes.

Alas, nothing lasts forever.

Mycroft went away to university when Sherlock started secondary, and thus began the strain on their relationship. Sherlock felt abandoned. Every year, he pulled further away from Mycroft. Somewhere along the way, things got better between them, but it wasn't the same. Sherlock continued to resist Mycroft. It got worse once he started using, then better for a moment when they agreed upon the list, then bad again. Mycroft continued to watch out for his brother because he simply didn't know what else to do, or how to make their relationship better.

Aarti considered Mycroft's response. "Would you say your relationship has improved in the last five years?"

"In a way. He's required my assistance in certain matters." _The fall, his retrieval, the Magnussen murder cover up..._

"I understand your resistance, but I believe speaking to your brother will help you in your journey to healing."

Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand. "I agree. If there's anyone who can understand what happened that day, and how you're feeling, it's Sherlock. He's changed...a lot, really. He's still a prick, but I can see his priorities are a bit different."

Mycroft looked between his therapist and his partner. He missed Sherlock. He missed the banter. He missed occasionally dropping by Baker Street, and hearing his brother give childish responses to his questions and case opportunities. He had wanted to text Sherlock, but he was telling himself not to.

He knew his brother was doing well. He still kept watch over him, but he opted to be less of an omnipotent presence. According to Mummy and Father, Sherlock was the most adult Holmes sibling. Everything Mycroft had done over the years for the good of his siblings was considered irresponsible. This painful berating of him by his parents stuck with him and ultimately led to him just keeping his distance from Sherlock.

"It's entirely up to you, Mycroft," said Aarti. "But I really believe this is an important step."

As their session came to a close, Mycroft removed his phone from his pocket and sent a text.

_How are you fairing, brother mine?_


	7. Reply

Sherlock replied almost immediately.

> _Well._

Mycroft wasn't sure of what to make of the text.

> _Did you text me as a concerned brother? Or are you simply following the requests of your therapist?_

Mycroft didn't know how to respond at first. Despite the fact that he knew Greg informed his brother of his current situation, Sherlock's awareness of his time in therapy caught him off guard. After he set his next appointment, Mycroft answered with: _Both._

"He's texting you, isn't he?" asked Greg.

He gave a single nod as he typed another message to his brother:  _I didn't tell you about my current state because I didn't believe you would care. I also believed you would think negatively of me for seeking counseling._

Sherlock bit back moments later.

> _Don't assume anything about me._

"I didn't think he'd care this deeply," said Mycroft. "I was foolish."

"No, you weren't. Don't beat yourself up for not talking to him. You were doing what you needed to sort through all of this."

"I was foolish."

Greg made a face and pulled him into a kiss. Mycroft welcomed the feeling of the DI's mouth on his own. The pressure of his lips granted him stability, and the warmth of Greg's hands on his jaw was a much needed comfort. They separated and Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's latest reply.

> _You're not weak for asking for help.  
>  You're weak for not coming to me._

This made Mycroft's stomach clench. Regret surged through him. He should have listened to his partner when he suggested speaking to Sherlock all those weeks ago. He should have replied to John's texts the days after the incident. If anyone could have understood how Mycroft felt and what he experienced it was both of those men, but particularly Sherlock. Why did he think he could get far without speaking to his baby brother?

As they waited for the elevator, another text came through. Mycroft reached for Greg's hand.

The DI took it. "You okay?"

Mycroft held up his phone.

> _Stop by the flat before you return to your fortress._


	8. Eldest

Sherlock had tea waiting for himself, Mycroft, and Greg when they arrived. He continued to play his violin despite their entrance. He lifted his bow from the D-string, and picked up a pencil. Manuscript paper sat on his metal stand with at least one stave complete. He drew a dotted half note and, after some thought, added a sharp beside it. Mycroft swore in his head. Sherlock was composing. He hoped he wasn't to blame. The younger Holmes pointed his bow at the sofa, his back still turned to them. Greg did as suggested. Mycroft remained standing in the doorway.

"Do you think you're the only one that struggled after that day?" Sherlock faced his brother, and removed his violin from beneath his chin. "What Eurus put us through was enough to induce post-traumatic stress in anyone."

Mycroft lifted his chin and stepped closer to him.

"Don't be so proud, brother mine. If you needed help—"

"I'm receiving it."

Sherlock made a face. "You could have come to me, too."

"And say what? _Hello, Sherlock, the events that took place with our sister are causing me mental distress, please help?_ You aren't the type to—"

"Mycroft, you are the eldest. You can recall more things about our childhood than I. Did you ever think that perhaps the trauma you're experiencing stems from more than the little games Eurus made us play?"

Mycroft grew quiet. Although his childhood had come up in therapy, he hadn't been seeing her long enough to truly get into how problematic things were when Eurus did the things she did as a child. They were going over what Eurus had done at the facility, not how she'd drowned Victor, or set their house ablaze. Or how she colored horrific pictures and sang that song he'd never be able to forget barring a lobotomy. Perhaps Sherlock had a point. At the very least he needed to discuss these things with his therapist. Likely sooner rather than later.

"You saw how she was and you were old enough at the time to understand. It affected your reactions to what happened. Don't discount that."

"I won't." Mycroft resisted the urge to smile. Seeing Sherlock show fondness in his own way interested him. He lowered his chin and said his brother's name.

"Mycroft."

Sherlock fixed him with a look that said more than enough. All those years of keeping his positive emotions for his brother hidden had run their course. He could no longer afford to portray heartlessness to those most important to him. He set his violin aside and wrapped his arms around Mycroft. He'd forgotten what it felt like to initiate a hug with his brother, or really with anyone other than John for that matter. He'd always received them, oftentimes he felt they were unnecessary. Standing here now, displaying his affection for his brother in this way, it was odd to say the least.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and hugged Sherlock back. He hadn't expected the contact, but welcomed it just the same. He closed his eyes. It'd been years since he'd genuinely received a hug from Sherlock. Perhaps his brother really had changed as John said he had.

"I'm getting better, Sherlock," he said. He swallowed the lump that threatened to form in his throat. "I'll still be there for you, you know."

Sherlock ended the hug. "I need to support you for a change."


	9. Mummy and Sissy

It took another month of sessions before Mycroft's appetite went back to normal, and yet another month after that before his nightmares decreased to once or twice a week. It wasn't much but it was something. His relationship with Sherlock began to heal, but there was one thing bothering Mycroft: the knowledge that Sherlock had taken up visiting Eurus regularly.

Mycroft hated that his brother played with her, especially after all she did to them. He refused to see his sister. In therapy, Mycroft faced the idea that this was likely Sherlock's way of processing, and that he should accept it. He found this difficult and taxing but, eventually, he'd managed to do just that. Mycroft's acceptance came just in time for Sherlock's big announcement: he and sissy were having a violin recital. The three immediate family members were expected to attend.

Greg spent the better part of an evening trying to calm Mycroft down. He wasn't sure whether it was the concept of the recital, or the idea of seeing Eurus again that upset his partner the most. Realization struck Greg as they prepared for bed.

"I'm so sorry," he sighed. " _Oh, fuckin' hell,_ I just realized."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "What, that I spent the last two or so hours weeping and blubbering like a child at the mere idea of having to face my mother next weekend?"

"Yes. On top of everything else, that's the last thing you need."

"On the contrary. It's exactly what I need if I want to progress for the better. Unfortunately, it's an uncomfortable reality that I'd rather not face."

The week went quickly, and Mycroft found himself sitting beside his mother watching his siblings play. It wasn't as awful as he'd anticipated. Eurus addressed him with a simple _Hello, Mycroft_  and gave him an uneasy smile. Although she appeared to be less threatening and almost childlike in her actions with their parents and Sherlock, Mycroft remained vigilant. When he looked at the glass of her cell, he briefly recalled the suicide that took place months before. He shut his eyes and focused on the music as he took deep breaths to calm himself. 

Mummy tried to make amends after the recital. She even apologized afterward for her behavior that dark day, explaining that the news regarding her daughter took her by surprise. That she'd turned 'absolutely monstrous' as she tends to do when anything equivalent to harm happens to one of her children. Mycroft apologized as well. Mummy understood that his intentions were honorable.

But they both knew their relationship wouldn't quite be the same. There had always been a sort of prickliness to their interactions, and that wouldn't go away anytime soon. Although they were kinder to one another, the wedge made its appearance in the way they spoke to one another at times. Going forward, it became painfully obvious in the way Mycroft's sarcasm had more of a bite and mummy's scowls cut the air. 


End file.
